


England's Potion

by orphan_account



Series: The Flower [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha!France, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Double Penetration, FrUSUK, FrUs - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Monsters, Naga, Nesting, Omega!America, Sex Pollen, Threesome - M/M/M, UKUS, Werewolf, alpha!england, dragon - Freeform, mastrubation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25098793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: England tries to figure out what the weird flower he found is by mixing it into a potion. What happens when he, America, and France end up getting some on them?
Relationships: America/England/France (Hetalia), America/France (Hetalia)
Series: The Flower [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789912
Kudos: 61





	England's Potion

Clicking his tongue, England just dropped the tin into the top drawer of his desk, not caring that some strands of America’s hair had escaped, littering the bottom of the drawer. The latch on the tin was too bent for it to close right, and England just didn’t care anymore. He needed to focus on what this flower was he’d found in his garden two days ago; he didn’t have time to worry about the failed spell he had hoped to bring some spice to his and his boyfriend’s love life.

England had no clue what the plant could be, but the way the pollen reacted to the liquid dripping into the Florence flask told him it could be used. The almost tie-dye effect made his brow furrow as England sat back and lifted his safety goggles, so they rested atop his head. He pushed himself away from the desk and rubbed his eyes, groaning as the two nights of no sleep finally caught up with him.

Grumbling about being tired and sore and not knowing what kind of potion he’d created, England turned the flame beneath the flask on low and started to move the floating desk away from the wall and books, so the potion could keep brewing but without risk of everything in the basement going up in flame.

Still grumbling, England grabbed a piece of chalk from one of the desk drawers and got on his hands and knees. With just a few swipes, he drew a sigil that would keep the desk floating an inch off the ground and rooted to this spot, but when he got up, he hit his head on the bottom of the desk, making him swear and rub his head as he picked the chalk back up, not noticing that the sigil had smudged. He dropped the chalk back into the drawer and slammed it angrily, not bothering to look back as he headed for the staircase.

Had he, however, he would have noticed that some of the potion, settling into a shade of pink, had splashed onto the desk’s surface, where it slowly ran and dripped into the still-open top drawer and onto America’s hairs.

Upstairs, said American was cooking dinner. “Look who—”

“Not now,” England grumbled, then yawned. “I need sleep.”

America frowned but wished his boyfriend a good night. “I’ll leave some aside for you in case you wake up hungry.”

America didn’t like it, but when England was this exhausted, he usually needed to sleep by himself. Any and every movement on the bed could disturb him, and America didn’t exactly sleep like the dead. England had even accused him of sleep-fighting before, and the crack in the headboard that hadn’t been there the night before he’d fallen asleep had convinced America that he might be right.

As he finished cooking, America became aware of an ache just below his stomach. He pressed his lips together but otherwise ignored the growing pain, figuring it had to do with hunger. Despite all the jokes, England wasn’t the only one who forgot to eat when busy, and America’s boss had wanted those reports ASAP.

“Shit,” America hissed, quickly backing away from the stove as he doubled over, one arm pressing against his body. Pain traveled down into his groin, and America ground his teeth as his brow furrowed. “Wha…?”

The pain turned sharp, pulsing in time with his heart.

America swore again and tried to remain quiet as he quickly turned off the stove, moved the pans onto the metal holders he’d placed onto the granite counter earlier, and then he started for the couch, dropping to his hands and knees halfway there. He crawled the rest of the way, feeling hungry and nauseous at the same time. A thin layer of sweat covered his face, neck, and shoulders, and he felt it start to drip down his arms as he pulled himself up onto the couch, panting as he pulled his legs up to his chest and glasses becoming askew.

So focused he was on the pain that he couldn’t even think to wonder where it had come from.

Down in the basement, the potion bubbled, pushing against the coil-shaped tube. The multi-colored bubbles shimmered where firelight hit it, and the desk started to turn and move, eventually running into a tall table. Scales jumped at the impact, potion splashing onto them as a few fell into the still-open top drawer, mixing with America’s hair. The potion continued to sputter and splash, hitting the pages of an open book and disturbing one of the five pixies that had been resting between the pages.

“What the—idiot warlock!” the pixie squeaked, dodging drops of potion as she turned the dial to kill the fire.

The other pixies woke up when the first whistled, and they flew towards here, blinking groggily or rubbing their huge, green eyes.

Huffing, the first pixie smoothed back her red-blond hair and took off, the others following close. They circled the desk three times, layering it in pixie dust. They then flew towards the desk’s usual spot in the basement, leading it there, and once the desk was back in place, the pixies flew upwards, inhaling deeply to make the pixie dust leave the desk. It fell back to the ground with a heavy _thump_ , more potion splashing onto the desk and into the drawer, which none of the pixies noticed was open.

“Well, then,” the redhead pixie huffed, returning to her book and yawning as she started to fall back to sleep. “At least he didn’t cause too much damage this time.”

Shrugging or nodding, the other pixies crowded around her, also falling back to sleep.

Upstairs, America shivered, shaking as he pulled the big, fluffy afghan he’d helped England knit (only by holding the yarn and choosing the colors, but still) down to cover him. He stayed curled up, going back and forth between feeling hot and cold, needing to throw off the afghan and pull it tight around him.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the pain was finally gone, but he remained laying on the couch, left weak. He dozed off for a few minutes until his stomach growled, and America finally groaned and got up, keeping the afghan pulled around him. As he went into the kitchen, he tied the corners of the blanket around his neck like a cape, mumbling about how weird that was and trying to make a mental note to ask his boss later if something happened.

America grabbed a plate and piled it with sausage patties, thick slices of bacon, country ham, and eggs, and he covered it and left the plate in the microwave, quickly scribbling a note on the whiteboard attached to the fridge. England was going to be really hungry when he finally woke up, so America might as well get his plate ready first. He felt like he might pass out on the floor soon as he took a bite of toast.

He added to the note to add syrup to the ham— _It’s really salty like you :P_

Smiling at his own joke, America prepared his own plate, getting only two fried eggs and toast. He grabbed strawberry jam from the fridge, craving something sweet. Thankfully, the hot chocolate hadn’t gone cold; maybe there was something to the sigils England had painted on the bottom of his mugs after all.

He ate quickly and brought his hot chocolate upstairs with him, starting to feel hot again as his body tingled. Pressure appeared just below his stomach again, making America pause, trying to focus on not accidentally breaking the mug as he gripped it. The pain didn’t come back, though, and America heaved a sigh as he set the mug onto his nightstand.

America was about to lay down when a strong sensation ran down his spine, forcing America’s spine to arch as a moan was ripped from him. His face went hot when he realized the sound he’d made, but he didn’t have time to think more about it as sudden anxiety seized him.

Shivering despite the rising heat within him, America felt sudden, deep need to pile blankets and pillows into a small space. The anxiety rose and rose and the strong sensation sent America onto his hands and knees, mewling as his body shuttered.

Quickly, he tore through the walk-in closet, emptying it of boxes and old clothes. He ripped the duvet, pillows, and sheets from the full-sized bed. He growled as he yanked the spare sheets and comforter down from the shelves in the closet, shivering as he piled them around him. He grabbed the blankets and pillows from the other two spare bedrooms, plus the spare comforters and down pillows in those closets, plus whatever soft things he could find in the linin closet.

The smell of England’s homemade detergent filled America’s nose, making him dizzy as he created a nest for himself. He rolled blankets and soft towels around the multitude of pillows, everything pushed into the far end of the large closet. Once he was satisfied, America collapsed, pulling the afghan around in front of his face. He breathed deeply, smelling England’s scent mingling with his own. He made another mewling sound, snuggling into the nest before another powerful sensation spiraling down his spine forced him to straighten and arch his back, mouth opening in a silent cry.

His entire body started to itch, America rubbing the afghan over his arms. His skin felt rougher than usual, and his clothes felt tight and uncomfortable. America became suddenly aware of his growing erection as something slick trickled down his thigh.

Swallowing, America managed to get his clothes off, ripping through the jeans and boxers before he finally kicked them off and threw them out of the closet. He hissed in irritation as he ended up ripping his Captain America shirt into pieces. He tried to throw them out of the closet, but the flimsy pieces landed back into his neck. He hissed again, irritated and pissy and wanting something. He wanted… what? He couldn’t say, and it made him angrier.

Suddenly, the lights hurt his eyes, but he couldn’t get himself to get up and turn them off. His legs were pressed together, and those strong sensations grew, coming in one after the other as America tried to roll himself up in his afghan, biting down onto the fabric to keep from moaning or screaming.

He couldn’t wake up England. He needed his rest.

But he wanted him. He needed him. He needed England inside him, fucking him so hard that America would need days of rest after, being doted on by his boyfriend, his love, his mate.

 _Mate_. He bit down harder then hissed, long, forked tongue flicking out of his mouth as blood trickled over his chin.

_I bit my lip? How are my teeth so—_

America’s back arched again, long tail hitting the wall as he slapped a hand over his mouth to keep his mouth to keep from yelling out.

He couldn’t even register that his legs were now a long, adder-like tail now. Pale, plated scales ran down the underside of his tail, ending just below his belly button. Gold and black scales decorated his shoulders, upper arms, and chest, and there were smaller scales that covered part of his temples and cheekbones and disappeared into his hair line. His ears were pointed, and a slit opened below twin bulges that continued to grow as America panted and tried to keep his head covered with the afghan.

Eyes squeezed shut to keep the harsh fluorescent light from giving him a migraine, America started to rub one of the bulges. His pants turned heavier, and he bucked into his own hand. His dicks were fully hard, leaking precum. He ran a finger over the head of one, picturing England as he smelled his scent on the blanket.

He pictured England running his tongue around the dick as he fondled the other one, America reaching for the second dick with his other hand. He didn’t register anything being different as he grew dizzy from England’s and his scents mixing together from the afghan, and he gently squeezed the head of one dick as he started pumping the other, imaging England’s mouth bobbing up and down as he fondled and squeezed.

More slick leaked from the slit beneath his cocks, America shuttering as he bit his lip again, needing England’s cock ramming into him.

Downstairs, as America continued to masturbate, France entered the manor with the key England had given him a few years ago. He knew America was supposed to be here this week before visiting China—though neither of their bosses were going to know about that little rendezvous—but France really wanted to know what this odd flower he’d found in his garden this morning was. He couldn’t figure out using any image apps he’d tried (the ones available for free, anyway; he wasn’t about to pay for it when England could tell him for free).

“Eng—”

France stopped himself when he smelled sausage and bacon. Smelled like America had cooked dinner—he did love his breakfast-for-dinner, especially if he’d skipped meals in lieu of getting work done. Only, England didn’t allow him to skip meals, unless he’d been working as well. Which meant he was probably sleeping, with America upstairs.

Sighing, France shifted the jar holding the flower sample to his other hand and dropped his bag to the floor. He’d fetch it later. First, he needed to check the basement. With any luck, England had already seen the plant and had notes down there.

Thankfully, the lights worked—England was too attached to using candlelight down here to keep up with changing bulbs—but it looked like he hadn’t fixed the stairs despite promising to do so for years. Just like with his kitchen, then, it looked like it would be up to France to schedule someone to come here and handle things.

Rolling his eyes, France kept his steps close, taking the steps only one at a time. And still, he tripped at the bottom step, jar flying as France let out a line of curses.

The jar hit a nearby table holding open books and samples—it looked like scales, fur, teeth, and other things France couldn’t name at first glance. France flinched when the jar shattered, a cloud of iridescent pollen creating a layer of dust over the table.

He swore again when some now-angry pixies, covered in pollen rose from one of the open books, and France debated whether to go to them and apologize or just run.

Before he could decide, though, the pixies disappeared, possibly to the fairy world or to visit Norway. England said his friends sometimes visited him when they thought the manor was too loud—usually when America visited.

Sighing heavily, France covered his mouth and nose with his hand as he went to inspect the table, not wanting to accidentally breathe in the pollen when he didn’t know if it was poisonous or not. He’d died enough times over the centuries to have acted blasé and even brazen about it—his, Spain’s, and Prussia’s favorite game used to involve real weapons and aiming for the head—but coming back to life was rather uncomfortable. France didn’t feel like going through that right now.

If both America and England were going to be too tired for one of their shared nights, he’d rather then get back to mainland Europe and see if Switzerland was willing.

Squinting, France pinched a bit of what looked like fur, holding it up as fine, iridescent dust fell from the soft strands. He held it up, trying to see how it reflected the light. He could see that the dust was very pale blue, not pure white. It was odd; France couldn’t readily think of any flower he’d seen that had pollen any color other than yellow.

There was a sudden _thump_ upstairs that made France jump and drop the fur. He tried to back up but felt something land atop his head. He shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair, which made him groan as he pulled his hand away from his mouth and nose. He was going to need to wash his hair later to get his curls looking nice again. He hadn’t anticipated the upkeep of curly hair when he’d gotten his hair cut, but he couldn’t deny the beautiful way the cut framed his face.

“Hmm?” France heard something dripping and looked past a smudged chalk drawing to a growing puddle beneath England’s huge desk that sat between ceiling-high bookcases.

Taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, France knelt down by the puddle and dipped a corner of the handkerchief into the pink-tinted liquid. He smelled the corner, thinking the liquid smelled familiar but unable to place the scent. As he thought, he felt something drip onto his head, and he cursed as he backed up, dropping his handkerchief into the liquid by accident.

Sighing, France left it and stood, making a mental not to have England replace it for him as he looked at the liquid dripping off the side of the desk.

Not knowing what it was but recognizing the flasks from potion experiments England’s done in the past, France didn’t want to touch his handkerchief again with his bare hands. He didn’t want to just leave it to continue getting dripped on, though, so he found a nearby stick—he was eighty-percent sure it wasn’t one of England’s wands—and used it to fling the handkerchief away. It landed near the table the pollen had coated, and France got up, making a mental note to let England know about it after he woke up.

Looking at his hands, France didn’t see or feel any differences from before, and when he checked his reflection in a mirror on the other side of the bookcase, he only saw broken curls that begged to be washed and blow-dried.

Thinking more of his hair than washing off whatever had dripped onto him, France left the basement and headed towards the stairs, figuring America was dead enough to the world that taking a shower wouldn’t wake him up.

Halfway up the stairs, France grunted, grasping the rail as he cleared his throat. He unbuttoned his shirt, feeling his temperature skyrocket as a peculiar scent filled his nose. A growl started at the base of his throat before France bit it off, scowling as he tried to remain lucid through the fog falling over his mind. His heavy breathing turned into pants as he struggled to walk up the stairs, the scent—the beautiful, intoxicating scent—grew stronger.

France growled again, shivering as he tore off his shirt and started unbuckling his belt. He was already hard, and as he ground his teeth, he felt fangs running over his bottom lip.

 _Just what was England working on?!_ thought France as he shuttered, taking in a deep breath through his nose.

Before he knew it, he was standing in the doorway of a walk-in closet, smelling England mixed in with that intoxicating scent. His claws dug into the door frame, long tongue lolling out of his mouth as he stared at the monster in front of him. An afghan covered his head, but washboard abs led to twin, erect cocks the monster was toying with, his long, snake-long tail twitching as the monster moaned wantonly.

 _Mine_ , thought France as he suddenly found himself on top of the naga, pushing away the afghan. His eyes, turned yellow, widened at the sight of America’s face, his lips parted around sharp fangs as he moaned.

The fog wouldn’t let France think about it too much, though, and his white, wolf-like ears flattened as he leaned forward, taking in America’s scent before nipping him along his neck. America mewled and moved toward him, begging for his cock, to be rammed into the wall and many things that would make even France blush had he the mind to.

Switching between licking and nipping America’s skin and scales, France shimmied out of his slacks and kicked off his shoes and socks, feeling his body get hotter. America’s scent overwhelmed him and left him dizzy as he placed himself over the naga. He kept his erection between America’s, moving to give only the most teasing sense of friction, smiling into his kisses along America’s chest as the naga begged for more.

America felt ready to burst as he begged and pleaded for France’s cock. He still longed for England, his England, but France’s smell—God, he could hardly take it. He wanted him to bite him, claim him, fuck him in every position he could think of until America couldn’t move.

His cocks twitched as France rubbed his own erection between them, milking out precum as Alfred’s slit grew even more slick. He gasped as France dragged his teeth along one of Alfred’s nipples, taking care not to break skin with his fangs. He felt France’s long, wolf-like tail brush along his scales, and the stubble on France’s face sent shivers along America’s body as the werewolf slowly moved down.

America groaned when France moved so he was no longer rubbing against America’s cocks, but a mewl was torn out of him when that sensation was replaced with France’s mouth and hand. Just like his earlier fantasy, France lightly pinched the head of one of the cocks as he ran his long tongue down the other. He ran another finger down the shaft as he continued pinching the head, rubbing and circling sensitive areas as he continued to lick.

At the same time, he shifted his stance on his knees, so the tip of his dick met the slit’s entrance but went in no further.

America gasped and moaned and mewled too much to beg or get even a single word out. He bucked and shivered, finally shouting when France plunged in, immediately finding his sweet spot.

Downstairs, England groaned, spitting out a line of swears as he pushed himself out of his bed.

By the sound of things upstairs, France had let himself in and had helped himself to America. This wasn’t the first time, but the two were usually more careful about staying quiet when they knew England was too tired to join.

Moments later, America yelled out again, tone and volume making it impossible for England to pretend he was praying.

Grumbling, he dug out the knock-off air pods he’d gotten for himself and turned on some music. He couldn’t fall back asleep with them in, however, so he decided to check on the potion instead.

He didn’t bother with getting dressed first. The pixies downstairs didn’t care about nudity, and it wasn’t like the others in the house hadn’t seen him in various stages of undress.

One of the air pods popped out of England’s ear when he tripped on the last step, and his phone flew. England ran after it without thinking, not wanting to break a third phone in as many months—not when he’d convinced both his partners he was _very_ careful with his things, thank you very much.

Coughing, England was covered in white dust—glitter? The pixies must have brought it in—and on the ground before England even registered that he’d landed atop the nearby table. Scales and dust stuck to his skin, England giving up on dusting it off with his hands. He spotted a handkerchief on the ground, already wet. He guessed it was one of his, kept down here to wipe his hands when he worked with plants the pixies gathered for him from the fairy world.

The handkerchief was oddly warm as England used it to wipe off the pollen and scales—he really needed to categorize these samples better if only for incidents like these—and he shivered once he was done. He found himself panting and swallowed heavily before shaking his head.

He needed to take a shower with purifying water, just in case.

Dropping the other air pod and leaving it with his forgotten phone, England headed upstairs and to his bedroom. He didn’t bother turning on the light before grabbing the dark purple bottle from the cabinet beneath the sink.

“Dammit.” It was empty. Stuck to the bottle was a sticky note reminding him to make more before the next full moon—which was last week. “Just showering should be enough.”

He turned on the water as hot as he could take it, shivering even as his skin turned red. He started panting again as he lathered up, and he didn’t notice he was getting hard until he suddenly found himself stroking himself.

Did he feel bigger? He wasn’t sure. A fog started to settle over his thoughts, and England shivered again as suds spiraled down the drain. He huffed and continued stroking himself, his other hand keeping himself propped up against the tile wall. He didn’t notice when his nails turned black and became claws that dug into the tile. His skin itched, feeling as though it were becoming tight, then stretching again. It kept that up in time with his rising heartbeat, and England’s ears started to ring. Soon, his ears were pointed and narrow, and he was covered in scales, knees digitigrade and feet large and with only three taloned toes with a fourth pointed backwards.

His teeth were sharp, and bat-like wings sprouting from this back as a long, reptilian tail swished behind him. Green scales marked his face, shoulders, arms, and chest, and scales had completely replaced skin down his back and from the waist-down.

He growled as he heard America yell out above him, England imagining himself being the one to make him call out like that.

Growling again, England shut off the water and got out of the stall. He shook himself dry and continued to pant as his body ran hotter. His hips shifted forward as he reached to stroke himself again, England’s body begging for friction, to feel America against him as he fucked him hard as his body could take.

Upstairs, America shivered, so close and crying out when France dared to stop again. He kept his tip right at the entrance, teasing America as he went back to kissing and licking his cocks, going back and forth between them to ensure America didn’t get enough attention to come.

“Please,” he pleaded, forked tongue flicking out as he hissed.

“Move,” said a new voice, and America started saying England’s name over and over again when he appeared, scent mixing with France’s. Both smelled dominating, and America shivered at the thought of both of them inside him, breeding him.

“You get him enough,” France growled, and America cried out for them to quit fighting and fuck him.

The two complied, France going back to licking and kissing America’s cocks as England started to kiss America’s mouth deeply, silencing his cries. Their long, forked tongues intertwined, and America tried to be mindful of his fangs as he nibbled on England’s bottom lip. His front teeth dragged along it as England pulled away, gently pushing on America’s shoulders as he started to leave butterfly kisses along his jaw and down his neck.

He circled one of America’s nipples with his tongue as France slowly pushed into his slit, stopping halfway as he took both of America’s cocks into his mouth at once.

America cried out as England licked around his nipple harder, his tongue almost like sandpaper. America shivered as England continued to lick, slowly moving down as France sat up, remaining only half-in America’s slit as England took one of his dicks into his mouth, France taking the other.

The difference in their movements and the ways their tongues moved made America yell out, shivering as his body filled with building pressure. He pleaded for more, and soon England’s erection joined France, the two of them moving in sync—slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

America let out a dragon’s breath when his sweet spot was hit. He felt so close, which the two seemed to sense as they stilled, right before hitting his sweet spot again.

America squinted his eyes open, shivering and trying to beg, but he panted to hard to get any words out.

France and England let go of America’s cocks and started to kiss each other, America opening his eyes wider to watch as they made out, turned to each other awkwardly as they remained inside America. France toyed with England’s nipples, causing him to moat into the kiss, and England coated some fingers in America’s slick and toyed with France’s own entrance, waiting for France to grunt assent before pushing one finger in.

When France jumped a bit at England finding his prostate, America called out, the sudden friction inside him bringing him close to the edge again. The pressure continued to build as England started to move up and down slightly, his long, green tail moving so the tip was covered in America’s slick before inserting itself into France.

France shuttered and gasped, his body pressed against England’s as he added a second finger, thumb massaging him just below his balls.

France growled into the kiss but didn’t move, sparks of pleasure dancing through his body as he felt himself be brought close to climax.

“I’m—”

England pulled his fingers out of France but kept his tail inside him and whispered, “Not just yet.”

Nodding, they smiled at each other and looked at America, who was watching them with bright yellow eyes, which shut tightly when the werewolf and dragon-kin slammed into him.

They started moving in sync again, going faster as they propped themselves up above America.

“I’m—” America managed in a squeak before yelling out, twin streams of cum coating France and England as they leaned forward and bit into either side of America’s neck, where it met his shoulders.

America’s scent filled their noses, mixing with theirs, claiming him as theirs, and they finally came into him, grunting and gasping. They remained still, gasping as America yelled out again as he felt himself become stretched inside his slit. His breath caught as he orgasmed again from the feeling, more cum hitting France and England as they remained inside the naga. They shuttered from their own climaxes, England panting heavily as he started to feel tired again.

America panted as the heat from before ebbed into satisfaction.

“Mine. My alphas,” he whispered as he gazed at France and England, blinking slowly as he wondered where the name had come from. But it felt right.

When England and France finally pulled out, shaking as cum leaked from their cocks, they collapsed on either side of America, taking in his scent and joining their hands on top of the naga’s chest.

“Mine,” England whispered, eyelids fluttering.

“Mine,” France said in a half-hearted growl.

“Ours,” they finally agreed before falling asleep.


End file.
